A short story about post traumatic stress disorder, masculinity, patriarchy, and a woman's love of her children. Beware: The writing is a bit overdone
Senses
To touch, to hear, to taste, to see and to smell. Five numb feelings when isolated. Theres nothing to touch or feel. You body is numb, with goosebumps from the wind. A vent blows cold air into your space. The space where only you reside. Your ears are closed, nothing to hear. But the beats of your heart. Bump, tadump. Slow and steady. Trying to look for the answer to your depression. All you can see are the people and things that lead you to this space. The last few smells and happy thoughts you placed in your mind before you moved. No going away party because there was nobody there. They left. All you have are you senses, quantity of 5. The amount of fingers on your hand. The pointer, the last touch of his temple. It was sweaty and he was lying. You wanted to pluck it with your middle finger. The same one you stick up to stop hearing a statement you don't agree with. Debating, arguing with your best friend. Never seeing quite eye to eye. The ring finger, when you find your spouse, all you can do is stare at it. The thought of having a significant other babbles you. Love, you can smell it in the air. Quoted by thousands who make pinky promises to stay together forever in junior high. With all your friends looking at your life with a thumbs up saying how good you’ve done so far. Progressing into something great but your senses failed once and you stopped. Bump, tadump. One heartbeat after another. Pasting faster, as you think of the past and what caused it. Thinking about the future, who wants to be like this all their life? You pick up your senses, cover them in a bulletproof box and re enter society. What’ve you achieved? Never found the source and you're not to sure of how to get back on track. All we want is to be comforted, leaving loneliness by itself. But misery loves company. Misery came to her senses a while ago, to take away your touch. To close your hearing. To make your stomach turn at the thought of food. To cover your eyes with large tears. Nevertheless, to stop your breathing.
When hunger called her from the keys, she ate the Chinese he'd brought in with him. Lo mien with shrimp. As she reheated the food sans shrimp in a dirty pan, she found herself completely underwhelmed by everything.
She hated shrimp, he should've known that by now, but they were not dating. Renée was careful to reveal as little as possible about herself, like a spy in a foreign country, she played her role, and remained mundane as humanly possible. She'd tried love once, but there were too many Johns who meant no good for Janes, and too many Janes snatching up the Johns that were half-decent. She decided to be a Jane for Richard, but she kept Renée for herself. She was not listless. There were always books to read, and especially to write. It hung in the air and if she could get it to settle into the ink, she'd be fine.
Her typer remained untouched and she remained unroused. Knock, knock The rustle of keys was followed by his booming voice. "I brought Chinese.” He flitted around her space, too comfortable to feel any bit of the awkward he looked. His big feet seemed unnatural in her close quarters. He was not welcome on her wooden floors. They did not speak him as they spoke to her. They groaned under his weight. His laugh assaulted her walls, they were sent back, hurtling towards them. She sipped the cold coffee on her desk. The scraping of metal on plates roused her from the place she was trying to be. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
May 2015
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